


your favorite account

by winterfold



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 01:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13225338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfold/pseuds/winterfold
Summary: Tommy Vietor@TVietor08  · 11:39 AMThings are going well here at @crookedmedia HQTommy Vietor@TVietor08 · 11:45 AMOh boy. Didn't carefully review that before I tagged it here.—Twitter, 2017/05/25





	your favorite account

**Author's Note:**

> you could consider this a sequel of sorts to [the prettiest boy in hollywood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10928439). archived from [tumblr](https://undeployed.tumblr.com/post/161373916847/); backdated to original posting.

“So, Tommy,” Lovett says as they’re leaving the office, “how are your mentions?”

Tommy flushes. There are a lot of half-naked guys in his mentions; he’s definitely gonna need to filter those for a while. “Fine,” he says anyway. It happened. Lovett had been in the middle of wiring up his desk, keeping up steady chatter about power strips and inconvenient electrical layouts, and Tommy had been momentarily struck by the way Lovett said “our offices,” like Crooked Media was something that had a home now–like it had a future, like it was something that might last through the year, into the next, and even beyond.

He snapped a picture for the locked Instagram which had turned mostly into pictures of Lovett a while back, crossposted to Twitter without thinking too much of it, and only realized something had happened when the notifications started coming in.

He’d hovered over the delete button for nearly an entire minute. Then he’d typed up a wry reply to the tweet instead and hit send.

“–saying, you find anything good, feel free to share,” Lovett says, and Tommy realizes he’s lost track of this conversation.

“Sure,” he says vaguely. He thinks about Lovett, and the future, and the thing that terrifies him the most might be that he’s not scared, really, at the way those things have tangled up together. 

What if, Tommy thinks. Imagines the arc of his life, stretching onward.

–––

Lovett’s sharper than usual when he comes back from a run with Pundit. “What do you want for dinner?” Tommy asks, and Lovett shrugs, says, “Whatever,” and disappears for the shower with his shoes strewn by the door.

Tommy doesn’t think much about it until he’s flattening boxes to slide into the trash and listening to Lovett threaten from the sofa, for the fifth time this month, to delete Twitter off his phone. Tommy’s pretty familiar with the content of the rant by now, so he’s listening to the cadence of Lovett’s voice more than the words, and there’s something about it that sets his teeth on edge.

“What is up with you today?” Tommy says.

“–so fucking performative– what do you mean, today,” Lovett demands, blinking at him. “This is not a new problem!”

“You’re not gonna delete Twitter,” Tommy points out. “Well, you might, but you’ll redownload it next week because this is our life now and you’ve managed to create a job for yourself that literally involves retweeting idiots to make fun of them.”

Lovett eyes him narrowly. “Don’t give me that look, Vietor, you do it the same as the rest of us.”

“I’m not–” Tommy throws up his hands. “I’m not trying to accuse of you of anything, jesus, I just wanna know why you’re acting like someone killed your puppy when she’s right there.”

Pundit woofs from her corner of the living room.

And Lovett snarls, “You left the tweet up _._ ”

“What?”

Lovett lets his phone drop onto the cushions, and his fury seems to turn, suddenly, cold and bitter. “Never mind,” he says. “It was funny. Irony! I’m a professional. Do whatever you want.”

“Lovett,” Tommy says slowly. “I did not post that picture to make fun of you.”

“Right.” There’s skepticism written all over Lovett’s face. “You just wanted to show off–” he waves a hand down his body “–whatever this is.”

“We live together!” Tommy says. “We have sex like, multiple times a week! Why are you saying it like it’s such an impossible concept?”

“Well, I have a great personality,” Lovett offers, sounding a little bit like himself again. “Come on, Tommy, it’s fine, I’m an adult, I’ll put out even if you don’t call me hot. You can flatter me in other ways. Tell me you liked my Russian soup specials joke.”

“I already laughed at that joke,” Tommy says, and comes to sit by Lovett. “Isn’t that double-dipping?” Lovett’s wearing a T-shirt washed thin, the digits of pi printed across the front. “And I do think you’re hot.” He slides up one sleeve to stroke thoughtfully at the curve of Lovett’s upper arm. “I could bite you– right there. It’d show up whenever you raise your arm.”

“See,” Lovett says, trying to twist away from him. “These are the times I can tell you were a great press secretary, because you are really good at lying.”

“Press secretaries don’t lie,” Tommy says, and moves to pin Lovett down across the length of the couch. “Destroys credibility.”

“Obscuring the truth, whatever,” Lovett says, but he’s looking at Tommy now, eyes softer, his mouth parted open. “Could use some more work on being convincing.”

“Working on it,” Tommy says; and this time, Lovett lets him when Tommy peels his shirt up, sucks a mark onto the juncture of shoulder and neck and leaves the imprint of teeth on the soft underside of his arm.

“This is some weird alpha male bullshit,” Lovett tells him as he’s leaving faint fingermarks all down Lovett’s ribcage. “Like– claiming your property or whatever, like we haven’t evolved past that in ten thousand years.”

“What if it is,” Tommy says, sliding further down to dig one thumb into the muscle of Lovett’s thigh. “What if I want everyone to know you’re taken. Off-limits.”

Lovett huffs out a laugh, the line of his stomach quivering. “You,” he says, running his fingers through Tommy’s hair until it’s in complete disarray, “are fucking ridiculous.”

Tommy grins up at him, but the mark he leaves high on Lovett’s thigh is just for him.

–––

“We gotta work on your metaphors,” Lovett says.

Tommy doesn’t lift his head up from Lovett’s shoulder. “What.”

“Before, when you said,” Lovett says. “Don’t kill my dog in your weird made-up examples.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Tommy says. He can just make out Pundit’s form, curled asleep on her bed. “I’m probably like, her uncle at this point.”

Tommy’s breathing along with the soft rise and fall of Lovett’s chest. He’s almost asleep when Lovett says, “You’re probably her dad.”

“Hmm,” Tommy says.

“Her other dad.”


End file.
